


Redeeming Sun

by Kierkegarden



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Actually a terrible ending, Adam Mickiewicz - Freeform, Angst with a Happy Ending, Countries Using Human Names, Drabble, Historical Hetalia, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, November Uprising, OOC, Or rather lack thereof, POV First Person, Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, Written at 4am while I was crying about Polish history, but only if you do the whole history thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 02:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10480347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kierkegarden/pseuds/Kierkegarden
Summary: Autumn comes in 1830 and Feliks and Toris plan revolt with a desire to restore the Commonwealth; A love story behind the barricade of Imperial Russian suppression.





	

**Author's Note:**

> All poetry throughout this story is directly quoted out of Ode to Youth by Adam Mickiewicz. This poem was used as a rallying cry in the 1830 November Uprising before it was publicly published. I do not own this amazing poem but I encourage you to check it out in its' entirety.
> 
> I have not actually read a LietPol fanfiction or watched Hetalia in many years hence the "OOC" tag. I'm just a history student specializing in Eastern Europe and I have a lot of feelings.

_Since in the land of darkness and of night,_

_The Elements have fallen out;_

_By a simple “Let there be”, due to Heaven’s might,_

_The world of things is made;_

_Gales are blowing, shelters give no shade,_

_And soon the stars will brighten Heaven all about;_

 

It’s September and the bitter wind nips at the back of your neck exposed by your sweater. You grow thinner every time I see you, I swear, though you always insist you have enough to eat. Only in the privacy of your home do we embrace and kiss.

 

The last time this month, I sit across from you, the kettle whistling, the flesh under your eyes swollen like pale purple pączki and your hands shaking. I fear that you're ill. You tell me you’re fine. Every time you tell me to tell you about how it used to be, what, two centuries ago when you didn’t have to remember to smile.

 

“I’m worried about you,” I say, tucking my legs tight to my chin, resting my teacup on my knees. I shudder. Your house is so cold and sparse with no rugs on your dark panelled floors. You ignore it.

 

“What did the merchant say to me that time, Toris? Something about my hair being the color of grain?”

 

Your eyes don’t focus on the table or me or the tea settled precariously on the arm of your chair. They are somewhere else entirely.

 

“Feliks, I…”

 

“The color of a swaying grainfield in the summer sun.” You rise, distracted, to gaze into the eyes of a portrait on the cabinet: a younger you, smiling triumphantly and waving a different flag. _You would have a portrait of yourself atop your finest dishware._

 

“When does he come by, Feliks? Should I leave?”

 

“Ah,” You start, frowning as if ushered out of a gallery before you had time to see the masterpiece, “it’s usually after I’ve already gone to sleep. If I’m lucky, he’ll only be here for a few minutes anyway. Ivan doesn’t stay unless he needs something.”

 

My mug is warm in my hands but I shudder again. You face betrays you and my fears confirm themselves; Anger rages inside me like boiling water, “We can’t let him hurt you anymore.”

 

You turn to me, eyes clear as daybreak: “I don’t even exist anymore. Not like I did. Not like we did.”

 

* * *

 

It’s October and I’m sitting in the Vilnius University Library reading literature and signs boasting _best library in the Russian Empire_ and choking on the words. The wooden benching presses firmly behind my back and I suppose there is no better cell than a library.

 

I received your letter about the revolt next month, so the true cell is my thoughts. I am a man obsessed. My patient nature fails me for my compassion. I want to end your suffering and restore what we had. I want it more than anything.

 

But security has been on the rise and they expect me to visit you again. Both my house and your house are swarming with Russian personnel and I am restless and can’t wait to see you again: this time armed and ready to once again fight by your side. I remember the last battle we fought together, we clung upon defeat, gently falling to the ground and melting sweetly. Not the last time, I swore, that we would melt together. Perhaps for a while.

 

Late last month, I traded my sweaters for furs and my hair springs wild with freedom from its cap. It’s cold but I am never alone. My home is warm and I have a bed. These are things I must remember.

 

The Russian consul to my right asks me what I’m reading.

 

Blankly, I show him the cover of an ornate Bible. A half smile curves my lips as I suppose he deems nothing more non-revolutionary and safe, though most men here would die for this book and more yet would kill for it. He looks away.

 

I pull out the last page of your handwritten letter: a copy of Mickiewicz’s _Ode to Youth_ and lay it gently between the pages. It is already well-known amidst the garrisons in Warsaw. I have yet to memorize it.

 

_The ice, so long unmoved, is bursting now,_

_With superstitions that have dimmed the light._

_Hail, Dawn of Liberty! Oh, Long live Thou!_

_Thou carriest the Redeeming Sun so bright._

 

It concludes so splendidly that my breath is drawn from my chest and I picture that redeeming summer sun once again setting your hair alight like a golden wheat primed for harvest.

 

For the first time in years, I feel its’ warmth

 

* * *

 

It’s finally November and my dark waistcoat reduces me to a shadow as I sneak behind the military academy hall to meet you.

 

“Toris!” I turn at your stifled call. Your green eyes brim wide with excitement. I hold you as tight as I possibly can and you feel warm and wild in my arms.

 

“It’s finally the night. The soldiers are ready, they’ve been training as hard as possible. They’re all willing to die tonight and I know many of them will. We’re massively outnumbered, but with you and the other territories, enough may happen tonight that we make a difference. I’m so ready, Toris, I’m tired of living a half life.”

 

You look more alive than you have in years, but I don’t say a word. Instead I bring my lips to yours and slowly press into them. Your skin feels so soft and real and beautiful that my mind is drawn to so many years ago when you kissed me daily as I went to sleep.

 

Only those who once had everything would risk it for a chance to relive those days. But you and I are well acquainted with blood and passion. You slide a heavy lance into my gloved hand and we wait for the battle cries, huddled close with bent knees, our free hands tightly holding; holding onto that sweet golden liberty.

 

_Oh Youth! The ambrosia of life be Thine_

_When I with friends do share the time so sweet_

_When youthful hearts at heav’nly feasting meet_

_And golden threads around them all entwine._

 

The eventual roar issues in the choir of metal against metal and the rush of fighting beside you, old friend, old love, I will try to describe. First: the metallic scent of blood, the drum of hooves around, footsoldiers and chaos and trampling. They truly weren’t expecting us. We storm and flood across towards the palace. Resistance is nominal, hope is finally here.

 

Then: the call for reinforcements, and the Russian Cuirassiers sweeping in over the bridge with their firearms blazing, the night sky alight with red and orange glow. The swinging of lances in retaliation and the sweeping of men into the water. The gasping of the drowned barely audible over the cries of the wounded on the soil.

 

We turn to each other on the battlefield and you shout something other the cacophony and droning, screaming. It starts to stink of the fresh dead. We charge through the gates of Belweder Palace. We’re still fighting, but we’re _winning_. I gaze on in wonderment and I jolt upright. As the Russian foot soldier runs headlong at me, my reflex fails me.

 

_Move on, Thou Clod! Leave the foundations of the world!_

_We’ll make Thee roll where Thou hast never rolled,_

_When finally vanishes from Thee the mold,_

_Green years shall be once more, Thy sails unfurled._

 

* * *

 

“Toris.”

 

My eyes flutter as I feel a surge of pain across my side. It seems to penetrate to my hipbone, rattling me like a chain. You stand above me, your hair alight from a window draped in lace. It’s spun gold bouncing against your bruised lip. You push it aside and lean in close to kiss me.

 

I pull away hesitantly, looking around. An ornate scarlet quilt is pulled tight around me in a soft, warm bed. “How long was I gone?”

 

“It’s still November, Toris.” You smile broadly with the free mirth of a child, “and we won.”

 

_While in the land of men a night so dumb,_

_The elements of Will are yet at war;_

_But Love shall soon burst forth like fire;_

_Out of the dark, the world of Soul will come._


End file.
